The Art of Vengeance
by Her Winter Requiem
Summary: NWN2, OC. All she'd ever wanted was to be a hero and do things right - even if the rest of the world didn't agree that the ends would justify the means.
1. The Child

**Author's Ramblings:** _Blah blah blah I don't own anything except Kinthea. __This is your average novelization of the original campaign, with two chapters thrown in at the beginning to elaborate on my character's history.  
Enjoy._

--

It was not uncommon at all for Esmerelle to leave West Harbor for months at a time. She had never struck any of the residents as the type who would settle down and live a quiet life. At times, her presence seemed almost feral and volatile, much like the wild elves Daeghun allegedly grew up with. No one knew exactly where she went on these journeys, and not many felt particularly inclined to ask.

Not until the day she returned with child.

Esmerelle was normally cryptic and hesitant when the subject of her adventures came up, though occasionally she would tell a little story or show off some of the strange objects she'd acquired. But through the seemingly endless rounds of questioning from the villagers, she refused to say a word about the father or even her travels. Her closest friends, Daeghun and Shayla, respected her silence and dared not ask about it or even mention the subject.

The child's name was Kinthea. From the day of her birth, it had been apparent that she was not entirely human. The girl had elven blood in her, most likely wood or wild elven; though it was hard to say exactly which. She had Esmerelle's mossy green eyes, as well as her untamed spirit; periodically wailing throughout the night was her favorite way of attracting attention. There were times when Esmerelle felt that she simply could not care for the child, that it was a curse thrust upon her life. Still, some part of her soul truly loved her daughter, and she requested that if anything should happen to her, Shayla would raise Kinthea as she would her own child.

Not long after she was born, the demons came.

Kinthea shrieked and bawled as her mother cradled her in bloodstained arms, whispering a gentle lullaby with her dying voice. The both of them were crippled by the pain, the explosion of silver still flashing in their eyes. Shayla lay motionless a mere few feet away, though her corpse was nigh unrecognizable now, and Daeghun was nowhere to be found...

In her last moments, Esmerelle murmured a prayer to the gods, lightly pressing her hand to the bloodless wound in Kinthea's chest.

-x-

Things were considerably quiet after the battle. Everything was focused on rebuilding, restoring, and renewing the land; that was the way of the Harbormen. You suffered, you survived, and you were ultimately stronger because of it. You moved on with life, didn't linger too long in past events, and went about your business.

Even so, there was no doubt about the fact that the battle had changed every survivor. There was a certain melancholy aura about the town, an almost perpetual gloom. They had never lost so much, had they?

But there was a note of hope, a small miracle. Even though her mother had perished, Kinthea yet lived. The injury she'd been discovered with was apparently of little consequence, and Daeghun had taken her as his foster child. No longer did she cry or scream in desperation for attention - in some way, the battle had also changed Kinthea. She was somber and quiet throughout her infancy, and even when she smiled, one could swear it wasn't genuine. This continued into her childhood, and she would often shut herself in her room for hours, to only think and brood about nothing at all.

-x-

In the darkest hour of the winter night, Daeghun was trapped in a restless slumber. He awoke from the dream slowly, disoriented and haunted. He couldn't even remember what he'd been dreaming about, but it left him with an unshakable sense of dread. He lay quietly in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to push himself back into sleep.

No sooner had he closed his eyes when he heard a strangled cry. Startled, he sat bolt upright, blinking rapidly. The sound was not human, but it was pained, and it had come from downstairs. Practically leaping out of bed, he pulled on a cloth robe for warmth and grabbed a crude dagger from the bedside table. Pushing open his bedroom door, Daeghun crept down the creaking wooden stairs, only to find the last thing he would have expected.

Lying in a pool of her own blood, skin and fur slashed hurriedly, was Tansy, Webb Mossfeld's beloved housecat. It was she who had cried out, in either terror or pain. Standing over the cat's corpse was Kinthea, eyes still bright with the spark of adrenaline. She trembled with either fear or rage, her tiny hands clutching the grips of two bloody knives. Looking up at her foster father, she recited her motive through clenched teeth.

"Wyl hurt Bevil... so I will hurt his brother."


	2. Atonement

**Author's Ramblings:** _After this chapter, the real story starts. Hopefully.  
__A message of thanks to my readers and reviewers. You keep me going when there's nothing else left.  
_

--

The other children feared her; not because of what she was, but because of what she had done. Even days after the incident that still left Webb shaken, they would stare at her with wide eyes and keep their beloved pets out of sight. Even Bevil and Amie, her two best friends, sometimes were put on edge whenever Kinthea was around, trying to hedge around certain subjects. The animosity between the Mossfeld brothers and Kinthea had only increased, and Wyl's tricks and traps grew more malicious day by day.

No one had any reason to be so afraid, however. Ever since she'd killed Tansy on that winter night, Kinthea had been docile as a lamb. There wasn't a flicker of emotion to be seen in her eyes; if anything, she constantly appeared bored. The crude knives she'd once held hadn't been touched for years. She didn't even try to fight back against Wyl and his brothers. Preferring her solitude to her friends, she would sleep for most of the days and adamantly refuse to come out of her bedroom. Kinthea slowly deprived herself of both food and sunlight, growing unresponsive and distant. Eventually, she would only answer to the friend she cared for the most.

Bevil Starling.

At first, all he could do for her was sit outside her room and try and get her to come out. He brought food for her when he learned she wouldn't eat anymore, and left it in front of her door. She came out and ate it when he left.

At one point, she let him in, but when he told her to go out, she shook her head and turned away.

The point at which the tide turned was the moment when he got her to talk.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked gently, laying a hand upon her shoulder. "Amie's worried about you, people are asking questions, and even Daeghun seems concerned. Why?"

The air seemed to stiffen with the uncomfortable silence. She swallowed hard, not turning to look at him. At last, she hesitantly replied in a cracked whisper, "...because... if someone hurts me... I will hurt them. And I don't want... don't want to do something like that again. I don't want to kill again, Bevil."

"Kinthea, it was just a cat," he said, trying to reassure her. "It's been a few weeks, too - no one remembers you did it, no one except Webb, and I bet he's forgiven you."

"I don't want to see their faces any more," she protested. "The others looked at me like I was some kind of monster, and Merring... Merring looked so disappointed when he gave me that lecture..."

Bevil sighed. Brother Merring, priest of Lathander, had always been Kinthea's idol. He could remember her, about a year ago, going off on some tangent about his deeds.

_"And Wyl and Ward actually listen to him, Bevil, and he can heal everybody so quickly, even without magic... he even saved you and me and Amie from those swamp beetles, didn't he?"_

To have him disappointed in her must have broken her to some degree.

"You can't hide in here forever," Bevil said. A sudden idea came into his head, and he smiled. "Look, do you want to do something good for the village?"

She shrugged. "If I could."

"You could join the militia and help protect West Harbor. That's what I'm going to do."

She straightened immediately, turning to face him. "You really think so? You think I could be a good part of the defense?"

Bevil grinned at how quickly she'd brightened. "Of course!" He picked up one of her arms, traced a vein. "We just have to put some meat on your bones, and maybe someday you'll be as strong as me."

A hint of a smile crossed her face as she pulled her arm back. "So... I guess I'll come out, then. For the good of the village."

-x-

_-several years later_-

At first, they were appalled at the thought of willingly putting a weapon in her hands. Aside from the reputation she hadn't managed to shake, she hardly looked capable. Kinthea looked so small and feeble next to Bevil, though perhaps it was only the elven blood. But she looked so _eager,_ and they needed all the help with the militia they could get.

Unfortunately for her, Wyl, Ward, and Webb had also joined the West Harbor militia. At the very least, it was suspicious glances and glares.

But what Wyl just loved to do, both on the practice field and off, was taunt her relentlessly. He'd insult just about every aspect of her being, from her size to her friends to her family to her race. And he never used the same line twice. The angrier she got, the less competent she became, and at one point she shattered a practice sword trying to throw it at him. No matter what she did, the Mossfeld brothers always came out on top in every match.

In desperation, she would spar with Bevil before and after militia training, trying new tactics, trying to find something that suited her. But this only served to tire her and fuel her frustration, and she was growing absolutely sick of hearing the disapproval in Georg's voice.

But one day, she saw Wyl running up the road in the distance - he was far enough away that he couldn't possibly see her, but she knew it was him. Kinthea waited silently, watching his approach with unblinking eyes. _This is it. I'll do something once he gets close enough._

When he was only inches away, she leapt out of her hiding spot and threw an arm around his neck, holding him fast. Alarmed, Wyl attempted to call for help - or at least demand to know what was going on - and she clapped her hand over his mouth, drawing her practice sword with one fluid movement.

"I suggest you don't move," she murmured coolly. "These swords may not be real, but I can still hurt you."

Bevil may have called it fighting dirty. Georg may have told her it was dishonorable. Wyl may have cursed her name a thousand times. But Kinthea had found a way to fight that put her at an advantage for once - and she wasn't about to let it go.


	3. A Rogue's Musings

Kinthea stared blankly out her window, watching the faraway crowds gather in anticipation. The Fair was starting, or had already started. Sighing, she folded her arms and kicked at the floorboards.

She didn't want to compete.

It was the same story every year - she'd refuse to go out, Bevil, Amie, or Daegun would convince her to participate anyway, and they'd lose. If there was anything Kinthea hated, it was being beaten annually - by the Mossfeld boys, no less. Even though she'd improved in the ways of stealth and underhanded swordplay, and she routinely tested her abilities out on them, they always seemed to hit harder. Wyl would taunt her endlessly, Ward would beat her senseless on the practice field, and Webb would remind her of the way everyone had stared.

It wasn't worth waking up to the same day every day.

She shook her head in resignation; if she didn't compete, she'd let Amie and Bevil down, and the Mossfelds would hurl endless accusations of fear and weakness. Heaving herself off her bed, she dressed in her usual trappings of padded cloth and leather, hesitating as she curled her fingers around her door handle.

Kinthea made it all the way down the stairs before she changed her mind.

Her foster father was standing by the fire, deep in supposed contemplation. She cleared her throat, whispering, "Daeghun, I don't--"

He turned, arching an eyebrow at her entrance. "Ah, so my foster daughter has decided to come down for the Fair after all."

She leaned against the railing, surprised that he hadn't heard her. Then again, she'd noticed that he only listened when it seemed that he wanted to. Shrugging, she nodded weakly.

"The human need for celebrations baffles me," he said, making her wonder if he was going to go off on another rant about how humans confused him. "I can see why you would wish to avoid them."

_But that isn't why,_ she thought, lifting her head somewhat to look him in the eyes.

"At least some good may come of it," he mused, prompting her to nod again. "This past season has been a hard one... for both tilled fields and wildlands."

Pointing towards the small wood chest, Daeghun continued. "The merchant, Galen is here - he'll want my furs, as he usually does. Coins can be useful in getting by."

"Do you want me to deal with him?" Kinthea asked, taking a few steps towards the chest; she knew what he would say.

"Yes. I know you are eager to see your friends, but don't forget to trade with Galen. I asked him to bring a Duskwood Bow for me last season; come see me by the archery field when you have acquired it."

With that, Daeghun walked out the door, not speaking another word. Kinthea loaded the furs into her pack, stepping outside and closing the door behind her.

-x-

Kinthea was mildly surprised to see her friends still waiting at the bridge. It was one thing to wait, and it was another to wait even when the Fair had already started.

"Aw, come on, Kinthea, we wouldn't leave you behind," Bevil said, grinning.

She smiled slightly, straightening somewhat. "Thanks... So, do you know what's going on this year?"

"The Mossfelds won both their matches in the Harvest Brawl." Amie shrugged. "As usual."

"But Amie's bound to win the Tourney of Talent this year," Bevil added cheerfully.

Kinthea raised an eyebrow. "Isn't Wyl doing the same act this year? I overheard something during militia practice."

"That's right, the pixie impressions," Amie said, smiling mischievously. "That should help my chances."

"And with our militia training and the archery lessons Daeghun gives you, we should win at least three events this time," said Bevil.

Kinthea eyed them both warily. "You really think we can win?"

"If we try."

"Then let's go talk to Georg."

-x-

The trio found Georg over by a tent, conversing quietly with Orlen, one of the farmers. From their hushed voices and grave expressions, it wasn't anything lighthearted. They waited politely until Orlen departed with a "Tomorrow, then" and Georg finally noticed them.

"Ah! If it isn't Kinthea! I was wondering whether or not you were going to show this year. And Bevil and Miss Fern, too!"

Kinthea managed a weak smile. It was awkward for him to address her in such a friendly way - usually he was chastising her for her choice of tactics or threatening her with punishments for starting unnecessary fights.

"Whole militia's pulling for you three this year," he grinned, "except for the Mossfeld lads, but no one pays them any mind."

Kinthea suppressed a snort. _The militia? Pulling for me? No. If they're supporting anyone, it's Bevil._ They seemed to see eye-to-eye with him, something she'd been unable to achieve.

"It's your last year to complete, isn't that right?"

_Is it?_ Kinthea paled, eyes widening. _It's only been eighteen years - is that a long time for ordinary humans? Gods, I feel so hurried..._

"Yes," Bevil said quickly. "What are the rules this year?"

"Same as ever," Georg nodded. "Win three of the four events, and you win the Harvest Cup. If you manage to win all four, the village council grants you a special prize... of course, no one's done that since ol' Cormick!"

Cormick. Kinthea had heard that story a hundred times over. It was supposed to inspire the militia, or so she'd been told.

"Ah, that boy was a legend. Some bit of West Harbor history he made... though I suppose you don't have time for stories right now."

"No, Georg," Kinthea murmured, shaking her head. "We're going to compete now. And we're going... to win this year." _I hope._

"Well, just remember not to let the Mossfelds get you or Bevil riled." Georg chuckled, trying to make it sound less serious. "That's how they always beat you on the practice field."

Kinthea threw a scowl over her shoulder as she walked away.


	4. Archery and Thievery

It felt so unusual to be out in the town without a blade - practice or otherwise - at her side. Paranoia settled over her, and every now and then she shot a glance over her shoulder. Bevil and Amie didn't understand, of course - they didn't spend every free hour indoors, trying to hide. As much as it hurt, Kinthea had to admit that she was a coward, the bane of every strong militia.

"Where do we go first?" Bevil asked suddenly, over the bustle and excitement of the Fair. Kinthea jumped, startled, reaching for her weapons that weren't there. He raised an eyebrow, and she immediately felt foolish.

"Sorry, what?" she asked sheepishly.

He blinked, confused. "Which event should we try first?"

"Ah..." Kinthea gazed nervously around the immediate area, trying to pick out the people supervising the tents. "I think we ought to stop by the merchant - Daeghun wants something traded."

She pulled the coarse, wild furs from her pack, marching over to Galen's tent dutifully. It was a matter of business, something they both ought to have known about.

"Ah, you're Daeghun's ward - isn't that right?" He looked her over, furrowing his brow. "Seems like years since the last time I saw you."

"It probably was," she sighed, gesturing to the furs slung on her arm. "You wanted Daeghun's furs, he wants your Duskwood Bow. Here's one end of the deal."

Galen nodded, the familiar smile of a fat-pursed merchant playing on his lips. "Good, good. He's a reliable sort, you know... always has furs of the highest quality. And don't you worry about the bow - I always come through."

_Of course you do,_ Kinthea thought sardonically as he took the furs from her. He pressed a sizable pile of gold coins into her outstretched palm, and she turned to count them out, handing most of them back in exchange for a sleek, dark wooden bow.

"It's a bit pricey," he said, "but it's fine workmanship. Sneaked it across the Luskan border."

"Hm," she mumbled, dropping the rest of the gold into her coin purse.

"You bought the bow in _Luskan?_" Bevil asked incredulously.

Galen raised a hand, shaking his head. "No, no, no! From a village called Ember. They're good folk, just ended up on the wrong side when the maps got drawn. Fine bowyers, too."

"We're leaving," Kinthea announced, whirling around and motioning for her friends to follow.

"I've never heard of Ember," Bevil said, puzzled as they walked away.

"You haven't?" Amie looked mildly surprised. "Well, I suppose it isn't in many books around here, but..."

Kinthea paid the conversation no mind as she headed for the archery competition. One thing she knew was that Galen hadn't cheated her - she'd gotten what she'd paid for. Kinthea was no archer, but the quality of the bow was apparent as she held it in her arms. Daeghun would be pleased - well, as close to pleased as he could get.

"I brought you the Duskwood bow," she declared, holding it out to him. He took it in his hands, and for a moment, a flicker of a smile crossed his face.

"A fine bow. A _fine_ one. Made by one who loves his craft," he marveled, still managing to sound dry. "You may keep the rest of the gold as your allowance for the season."

Kinthea shrugged. "I may as well get the archery competition over with, Daeghun."

"The rules are the same as last year," he nodded. "Ten shots, ten targets. Your targets will be old bottles, set atop the crates, yonder." Kinthea looked over at the pile of neatly stacked crates - the bottles standing there looked so _small._ How could she hit one, let alone ten?

"Five is the best score so far. If you still remember what little I have tried to teach you, you may be able to best that." Daeghun stepped back, and Bevil and Amie exchanged worried glances.

"Kinthea, didn't you say Daeghun had been teaching you archery for--" Amie was cut off by a warning glance from the half-elf in question.

"We'll discuss it later," she muttered, lifting a crossbow from the barrel. To her surprise, it was one she recognized - the weapon she had used to train with once upon a time. The notches and marks were all too familiar. She stared at her foster father, wondering if this was intentional. He glanced towards the shooting range, requesting that she move forward.

She breathed a heavy sigh, walking up to what she thought was an acceptable distance. Daeghun cleared his throat. "This is an _archery_ contest. Keep your distance from the targets."

Hesitantly, she stepped backward until he finally nodded for her to continue. Taking careful aim at one of the dusty bottles, Kinthea let a quarrel fly.

The bolt sailed straight into the bottle's center, and it shattered noisily. She smiled slightly - perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. The next bolt flew as effortlessly as the first, further elevating her hopes.

On the third firing, however, her fingers slipped, and the bolt whistled past the bottle's neck. Biting her lip, she fired once again - her aim was off by two inches.

By the time the ammunition had been exhausted, only four bottles had been destroyed, along with Kinthea's confidence in archery. Her skill lay with the blade, not with the bowstring - and as her friends looked at her in disappointment, she felt that they should understand that. She would have liked to see Amie with a crossbow.

Her foster father had no words for her, just a knowing look of slight disdain.

"What _was_ that?" Bevil asked angrily as Kinthea strolled away. "Do you mean to tell us you can't use a crossbow? Even _Ward_ is a better shot than that, Kinthea!"

"I never meant to tell you anything," she whispered, avoiding their eyes.

He stammered blindly as she continued to walk, towards Tarmas and the Knaves' Challenge. This was an area better suited to her skills, and everyone in West Harbor would have agreed.

"Enjoying the Fair?" Tarmas asked dourly. "Packs of feral children set loose to find trinkets, grown men braining one another with clubs... Did you know they're actually granting prizes for the fattest pig? As if the creatures needed encouragement."

"We're here for the Knaves' Challenge," she stated, "not pig contests."

"Well, of course _you_ are," he remarked coldly. "I imagine this event won't be too troublesome for you. Before you begin, I suppose you'll want to hear the rhyme?"

"Not really," she mumbled.

"Well, Georg asked for a rhyme this year. That's what wizards do - compose rhymes." He rolled his eyes almost imperceptibly. "I've hidden three feathers, scattered them wide. Placed White in a box, and locked it inside. Blue followed termite-tracks, down where they ran. Green in the pocket of same-colored man."

Kinthea nodded quickly. "I see. This shouldn't be very difficult... farewell."

Even if her wisdom and tact were both questionable, Kinthea could be deductive and logical when it counted - especially when it came to deciphering riddles. For starters, she felt it was fairly obvious that they were to find three feathers; one white, one blue, and one green.

She walked slowly down the path, deciding to search for the white one first. Kinthea would stop every now and then and scan the area for anything that could be called a box. Eventually, she came across a large wooden chest, complete with an awestruck child who stood in front of it.

"Tarmas locked a feather in that chest!" the child shrieked, pointing at it as she bounced on her heels. "I saw him do it!"

Kneeling in front of the strongbox, Kinthea fetched her picks from her pack and set about studying the lock's inner workings. She had experience with locks, considering the many times she'd broken into various rooms - most famously, the room of Wyl Mossfeld, an incident that had left them both scarred and wary.

The lock possessed a relatively simple mechanism, and after a few moments of painstakingly precise fiddling, it clicked in surrender. Throwing open the lid, Kinthea reached inside and drew out her prize: a long, white feather. The little girl was bubbling over with excitement.

"Show me how you did that!" she begged, glancing back and forth between the broken lock and Kinthea. "Please!"

Flashing the child a baleful glance, Kinthea continued to saunter down the path, tailed by her - still slightly angry - friends.

"She's just a kid, Kinthea," Bevil sighed. "Just because we have things to do doesn't mean you should just brush her off like that."

"You know, this isn't helping your reputation at all," Amie pointed out. "Just a few years ago you wished people wouldn't act so defensive and paranoid around you - didn't you ever think there was a reason _why?_"

Kinthea came to a gradual stop, just in front of a stray pile of logs. They'd been stacked into a curious formation - and just under one of them was a flash of blue. Reaching for it, she asked quietly, "What does it matter to _you_ if _my_ reputation isn't so honorable?"

Amie folded her arms, exhaling sharply. "This isn't about _me,_ Kinthea--"

Suddenly, as Kinthea tugged on the blue feather, a small flash of light erupted from the woodpile, an invisible wave of force knocking her over. It continued to try and drive her into the ground for several moments until it faded.

"What in the..." Bevil stepped forward, indignant. "Someone _trapped_ those logs? Why would they do that?"

"It's part of the challenge," Amie said, helping her friend up. "Right, Kinthea?"

She nodded, plucking bits of grass out of her hair as she stood. "It has to be. 'Blue followed termite-tracks, down where they ran.' Obviously, this means wood, and it wouldn't be a challenge if all I had to do was pull a feather out of some logs."

Kinthea tucked a loose strand of hair into her ponytail, now seeing the partially hidden components of the trap. "I think I should be able to disarm it, given what I've read. Give me a moment."

It didn't take long for her to understand how it had been set, but actually disabling it took a few attempts. At last, she was successful, and she plucked the blue plume from the pile with no further problems.

"Where do you think the final feather is?" Bevil asked. Kinthea shrugged.

"Green in the pocket of same-colored man," she murmured under her breath.

Amie suddenly pointed at a young man by an old house, who was jovally chatting with a villager. "I'll bet that's him - he's dressed in green, see? The feather's in his pocket, it's got to be."

Bevil rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "How do we get the feather?"

"I don't think he'll just let us take it," Kinthea replied. "No... I think this last one requires some sleight of hand."

With that, she slid onto the porch of a nearby house, slowly creeping towards the man. Her footsteps made only the slightest of sounds as she skulked across the wood boards, and as she slipped her fingers inside his back pocket, he made no motion to catch her. She escaped successfully with her loot, a short green feather.

"How in the world did you learn to do that?" Bevil demanded, amazed. "It was like you weren't even there!"

Kinthea held up all three feathers, already walking back to Tarmas's tent. "Practice. And if Ward's been asking about the pellets for his slingshot, tell him to quit carrying them in his pockets."

They hurried after her, catching up just in time to see her hand the three feathers over to the wizard. "Here they are, Tarmas. I believe we've won."

"So you have," he said, pocketing the feathers. "Thank the gods. The Knaves' Challenge is won, and I can go someplace dry. I'd kiss all of you, but no one respects an affectionate wizard."

"Right." Kinthea's eyes wandered over to Amie, who promptly flushed.

"What?" she asked, suddenly sounding guarded.

"Nothing. I just remembered something that happened at last year's Fair that involved a _very_ affectionate wizard."

"You were _there_ for that?" Amie stammered, eyes widening.

Kinthea swung around the tent, looking for the nearest event. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"She's the one that bought you the Harvest Mead," Bevil intoned quietly.

"That was _you?_ I thought it was _Vera!_"

"What? I don't look a thing like Vera."

"Well... she was pretty drunk, Kinthea."

Amie opened and closed her mouth a few times, trying to say something and coming up with nothing. She remained silent as Kinthea led the group over to Retta Starling and the Tourney of Talent.


End file.
